Million
by caynaise
Summary: Lisa isn't quite what she seems. Or maybe Arisa just didn't look at her the right way.


**Originally written for Bandori Rarepair Week 2019, Day 4: Confession**

* * *

Seven o'clock Lisa is nobody. She rolls out of bed, feeling for her slippers with her toes. Feels her way to the bathroom, splashes her face with water and sticks a toothbrush in her mouth. Spits, glances at the mirror and grimaces. Red-rimmed eyes, blotchy skin, tangled hair coming out of its plaits in tufts.

It's alright. She has plenty of time.

Back to her room and deep into her wardrobe to prospect for forgotten gems. A minute, and she comes up for air, a loud tie-dyed t-shirt and expertly ripped denim shorts clutched in her hands in triumph.

Clothes, on. Hair, tamed. Well, it will be in just a second. Lisa crinkles up her forehead, working at the stubborn knots, hair tie hanging from her mouth. One more tug, and a clump of streaked brown comes free, lodged between the comb's teeth. She pries it loose and holds the sacrifice between her fingers, mourning her loss, then gets back to work. Nimble fingers smooth a touch of serum from roots to ends, sweeps the section above her ears into a half pony.

She sits down in front of the mirror and unzips her makeup bag. The scent of powder hits her nostrils, wakes her up the rest of the way. She paints her eyelids bold and black, makes her eyes pop, takes the sponge and dabs the puffiness under them away, moving to her cheeks and everywhere, finishing with a thick smattering of powder and glitter and gloss.

Eight o'clock Lisa stands tall, smiles at her reflection and heads to the kitchen, prepared for anything the world fancies throwing at her.

* * *

Seven o'clock Arisa is still sound asleep. She sleeps through three alarms, then jolts awake at half past and wastes a few more minutes flying into a panic and berating her inability to drift off the night before, in short bursts under her breath.

Eight o'clock Arisa is considerably better groomed but no less high-strung, and about the same in all other respects. Her grandma still manages to feed her a whole omelette before she leaves the house.

* * *

That's how their days start. The days when there's only the two of them, and some awkwardness, and some teasing, and touches light as air. Lisa is always perfect, in Arisa's eyes, and never enough in her own.

Arisa will never guess that the wistful gaze Lisa sometimes directs to her is just a little bit jealous.

* * *

They're walking back from Lisa's favourite department store, bags slung over arms, when rain starts pelting down with almost no warning. By the time they make it under a nearby pavilion, Lisa's mascara is running.

"Oh, that's not good," Lisa observes, pulling out her hand mirror and squinting at herself. "Wanna come over when this lets up, Arisa?"

"H-Huh?" That sure came out of nowhere. "Um, yeah, alright."

* * *

Lisa excuses herself when they arrive and shuts herself in the bathroom, bending over the basin and cleaning all the gunk carefully off her face. With every stroke of the sponge she feels more exposed, and a hollowness expands in her chest.

She may have the largest social network in Haneoka, but people will be people, and sometimes she needs something a bit different.

Arisa's waiting for her in her room, having dried off and changed into some new clothes she bought earlier, and sits primly on the edge of the bed, knees together, engaged in a staring contest with the rug.

Lisa sits next to her, smiling self-consciously. "Was I too pushy? You can go home, if you want."

"No, I'm fine with staying!" Always that polite tone, several steps higher than when she's at her most relaxed. But it's _her_. It's her and no one else, and Lisa wouldn't change that for the world.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

Instant attentiveness, intelligence sparking in her brown eyes. "What is it?"

Lisa realises she doesn't know how to word the question. _What do you think of me? _sounds obnoxious, and even if she did manage to put it more eloquently, asking Arisa of all people would only fluster the girl and then make her feel bad. So she backtracks and says lightly, "What's the secret to looking so adorable all the time?"

Arisa goes bright red. "P-P-Pardon?"

Lisa snorts, quite inelegantly. "Kidding, kidding."

"I imagine you'd know better than me, anyway," Arisa mutters, and freezes, no doubt from the discovery that she spoke aloud.

Lisa's heart skips two beats, first at the unintentional compliment, and then at . . . well, Arisa being Arisa.

She pretends not to have heard. "Okay, no more teasing." She lays a hand on top of Arisa's, leaning against her, craving that closeness more than anything but careful not to go too far. Because shame on her for having her own desires. Shame on her for not living to please others at all times.

Arisa doesn't really respond, but she doesn't scoot away either.

"So, Arisa," Lisa says, and she almost has to physically restrain herself from babbling like an excited preschooler. "Anything else you've got your eye on? Clothes, shoes, hmm . . . maybe I can look up a homemade recipe for anmitsu, or—Is there a weird sort of cookie you wanna try? I love testing out new ingredients."

Arisa just looks bewildered. "Wait, Lisa-san—I don't particularly want or need any of those—Not that I _don't_ want them, that's not what I meant but you don't have to . . . do all that for me?"

Lisa chuckles softly. "Yeah . . . I guess it'd be weirder if you did want my pointless stuff, huh? That's fair!"

.

Arisa stares at Lisa, perfect Lisa with no makeup on, and marvels at how much younger she looks. The butterflies in her stomach settle, even with Lisa so close, Lisa's larger, callused hand covering hers.

"No, I swear that's not what I meant!" She's conscious of how painfully honest she sounds, but that might not be so bad after all. "It's just that—you're always helping me out. It wouldn't be fair."

"Hm, it's not really like that though," says Lisa, gaze distant, pensive. "Okay, this is gonna sound dramatic, but looking out for everyone—that's kinda what I live for. Without it, what am I, really?"

Arisa stills, and understands. Even without enhancement, the curves of Lisa's face stand out, eyes pulled up at the corners, the outline of her mouth like the shape of a bow. Her presence is so far-reaching and _there _. . . and yet in a way invisible, simultaneously absorbing and sharing attention in a room with masterful ease. Always the same dance, inseparable from the people around her. Feeding off their validation.

It never occurred to Arisa that she and Lisa Imai could be alike.

When she opens her mouth to answer, her tone is so frank that it borders on accusatory. "What are you saying, Lisa-san? You're—"

Yet the words evade her. It's like trying to describe the blanket she pulls over herself every night without thinking, or the strong wires she uses to shape her bonsai trees, and removes without a second glance afterwards.

She wonders if there are people in Lisa's life like the kids in primary school who were nice to her for a week, copied her homework and turned around to laugh at her gullibility.

That turned her off the idea of having friends. That sort of thing usually does.

Seems she and Lisa aren't so similar after all.

"You're . . ." she tries again. Lisa is what? Nice? That sounds more like an insult by itself than anything in this case. "You're my—my inspiration," she blurts out, and it's a clumsy and oddly romantic thing for her to say, but certainly not a lie.

.

Lisa draws back in surprise, blinks several times. Are her ears playing tricks on her? Logical, no-nonsense Arisa, calling her that?

"I-I uh . . ." she fumbles, and all of a sudden, in a spectacular turn of events, she's the one with fresh colour rising in her cheeks. "Arisa, isn't that a bit . . ."

"It's true!" At least there's a stubborn flush glowing pink on Arisa's face too. "I'm not a nice person. That's just a fact. Whereas you—you look like you don't even have to try. And you seem to have endless—you know—" She gestures vaguely. "Uh, good qualities?"

Lisa could've laughed. "Nice isn't the same as kind, Arisa. I know what you do for your band."

"What about you and Roselia?"

"Mm," she dodges the question, "but without all of this I'm kinda just nothing. An aimless wanderer, I guess."

"Aren't we all?"

Lisa's eyes fall on her tenderly. Arisa calls herself a downer, a killjoy, but all Lisa sees is warmth and sincerity that shines through the pessimism and gawkiness and paper-thin walls she puts around herself.

"Not you," Lisa says, resting a hand on Arisa's shoulder. "You're really special, you know that?"

"Wh-Wha—?"

Any more, and Lisa wouldn't be surprised if steam started gushing from Arisa's ears. But she keeps going anyway, partly for the fun of it.

"You know, I really wish I had that special something you have."

And there it is, out in the open.

Arisa can't take it anymore. She jumps up. "You're not making any sense, Lisa-san! I'm gonna—whip up something to pay you back. It's only fair."

It's only fair. Arisa deals in deeds as if they're money, dollar for dollar. Simple as can be.

Not to Lisa. Arisa's dollar is worth a million.


End file.
